


Night That Never Was

by xtricks



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-17
Updated: 2008-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtricks/pseuds/xtricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after John Hart rode the Rift out of Cardiff didn't exist.  Jack and Ianto take that time for themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night That Never Was

**Author's Note:**

> Winner of the 2008 Skiffy Awards: Hurt/Comfort - Jack Harkness

Nothing had gone the way he'd imagined. Jack certainly hadn't imagined he'd ever see Hart again, though he'd thought of him as he hung in the boiler room of the Valiant.

He'd thought of Gwen. He'd thought of Owen. He'd thought of Tosh. He'd thought of Ianto. He'd thought of hundreds of people actually, some already dead, some mostly forgotten, some still living. Some were killed in front of him. Eventually, he'd stopped thinking of much at all. Jack was pretty sure he went crazy in that year. He was pretty sure everyone had. Then, it was over - no, more than that. Then it had never _happened._

They were back, the people he loved, the places he loved. They lived, they breathed and they didn't even know how much they'd suffered or that they'd suffered because he loved them. But, Jack knew and he wanted ... he was torn between driving them all away and locking everyone he cared about in the Hub and never letting them out into the world again. Except they couldn't even go to the Hub tonight, they had to wait out their own personal paradox and Jack admitted he was a little - unnecessarily - freaked out by that. He'd wanted to go home. Whatever that meant.

Jack knew he was a little out of his head but he'd get over it. He was a Time Agent, he knew all about time paradoxes, they happened, then they didn't, and everybody was fine unless they weren't. He was fine. He just needed things to get back to normal.

"Jack?" Ianto's voice was a little uncertain and when Jack turned his best smile up to him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Ianto." Jack reached out to reel Ianto in, hand on his waist, the texture of wool under his skin - he'd dreamt of that. Fantasized about suits and ties and quaint 21st century customs, and what was more normal than - Jack lurched up, chair crashing to the floor, still clutching Ianto's hip in one hand, spreading his fingers through Ianto's soft hair - _not burned, not bloody, not sticking in shreds to the Master's fingers_ \- and kissed him with all the desperation of a man who hadn't kissed anyone for a year.

"Ianto, come to bed - now. Ianto, Ianto - c'mon," Jack murmured huskily, smoothing the desperate edge out of his voice as he brushed kisses along Ianto's hairline and rubbed his thumb gently over Ianto's hip. "Welcome me home?"

He caught Ianto's breath in his mouth, moaned against his soft sounds of pleasure, felt Ianto relax into his arms. Jack's breath hitched when Ianto cupped his hands against his neck, thumb stroking across Jack's cheek and his kisses grew demanding. Jack ached for it. He ached all over, bones still remembering his most recent murder - and he squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering, as the body memories of all his other deaths swept his skin like pins and needles. He'd died three-hundred and sixty-four times on the Valiant, the Master had made a point of it. The Master had missed the last day, too busy dying himself to attend to Jack. Hart had kindly made up for that lapse.

"Jack! Ow!" Ianto jerked, chin banging into Jack's nose as he twisted in Jack's suddenly savage grip, pulling at Jack's hands. "What is _with_ you?"

"Nothing!" Jack jerked back, flinging his arms wide with a fragile grin. His mouth missed the feel of Ianto's but his stomach was tight with a kind of lingering sick fear. Ianto looked unconvinced. "Just -" he scrambled for something palatable. Something he could admit. "Old friends, enemies ..."

Ianto was rubbing his side where Jack had grabbed him. He was flushed and clearly hard and Jack was very sorry that they'd somehow got sidetracked into actual conversation. That hadn't been his plan at all. "Old memories?"

Jack flinched all over and he knew it was beyond covering up so he shifted to acting casual instead of sexy - tucking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. Twisting his gaze aside he scanned Ianto's apartment in a search for distraction. It was ... kind of a sad place, actually. Tiny sprang to mind, and empty. Everything was obsessively clean but undeniably shabby. It reminded Jack of his bunk at the Hub and it was, he realized, more than he wanted to know about Ianto's lack of life beyond Torchwood. It was_ too_ much like his bunk at the Hub.

The silence went on a beat too long then Jack remembered why he loved Ianto all over again - besides the suits, besides the razor sharp irony, besides so many things. Ianto didn't ask him any questions, there was no who or when or why is your former lover a sociopath and do I have that to look forward to? Ianto just swept his hands behind his neck with a short sigh, stretching his back, and said. "Come to bed, Jack."

That he could do.

Ianto's standard sized bed was luxurious compared to Jack's old campbed and he organized his closet by color. There was no engine sound here, or a fatal fall blowing past him but Jack could still feel it all like an itch under his skin. He watched Ianto slip out of his jacket and unbutton his shirt, breath catching at the slide of cotton along Ianto's shoulders and arms. He had his back to Jack and the view was lovely. He couldn't resist the curve of Ianto's neck, the supple shifting of his shoulder blades as he stepped out of his pants, and Jack slipped forward to kiss Ianto's skin, breathing in the sweaty - running for our lives - smell of him. A moan gathered in his throat, broke free as Jack opened his mouth against warm skin and _this_ was what he wanted. Ianto let his head loll back against Jack's shoulder, his throat bare, pulse beating visibly, a shiver following Jack's hands as he trailed his fingers along his chest._ This_ was what he wanted. Ianto's nipples, when Jack brushed over them, were drawn tight. He smiled against Ianto's ear, sucking on the lobe and pinched them gently. Ianto hmm'd softly, arching into Jack's hands, cock jutting stiffly out. This was what Jack _wanted_ and he pushed aside the awareness of his unexpected lack of ... visible enthusiasm. He just needed a few moments, he had died recently after all, and he'd never failed to rise to any occasion before.

Ianto twisted in his arms and they urgently fumbled through Jack's braces and belt, buttons and laces. Ianto's cock nudged against Jack's thighs, leaving warm trails as they stripped him down. Ianto's hands were hot on his skin and Jack was kissing like a drowning man - the Master had drowned him three times - until he shivered, jerking his head aside and gasping into the shadows, trying to catch a last breath. Ianto steadied him, hands spread along Jack's back, his breathing short and his eyes, in the dimness of his tiny little bedroom, worried. He shifted slightly, his erection brushing over Jack's stubbornly soft cock.

"There's nothing we have to do." Ianto said and if he sounded breathless, Jack couldn't exactly blame him, not with his cock standing hard and flushed and wet at the crown and so beautiful it made Jack's mouth water.

"I want to!" Jack said, tight with frustration, bursting with hateful memories of things that had never happened. The Doctor did this all the time - in all kinds of times - but he'd not said a word on_ how_. Jack just wanted to fuck and forget and wake up and do it again until everything was back in its proper place. "Just give me a minute to wash up."

He slipped away from Ianto's touch and made a strategic retreat to the bathroom. He flicked on the light, wincing at the brightness, and frowned chidingly at his reflection. He looked good. He was good, he was the_ best_. He was Captain Jack Harkness and this was just embarrassing. He washed his face, water beading on his throat and shoulders, then ran a cool hand down his chest to cradle his cock. He ran a thumb along the warm length, petting himself as if he were coaxing a shy animal to his hand and watching his own face in the mirror. He cocked his hip, twisting into his hand, and gave himself his best seductive grin. Who could resist that? Clearly, he could. Jack sagged forward, head thumping against the mirror and tears gathering on his lashes. What if he was broken forever? He should have shot the Master a few more times and to hell with the Doctor - Jack's hand tightened angrily on his cock until he flinched.

"Dammit," He cursed himself, aching for Ianto and for the way he knew it would feel to lose himself in sex. He was desperate to replace pain with pleasure and loneliness with touch but was thwarted by a few inches of stubborn flesh. "God dammit!"

"Jack." Ianto's voice was just on the other side of the door. "Come out."

"Ianto," Jack said wearily and opened the door. At least Ianto was still naked, he hadn't given up on Jack yet. But his cock was at less than half-mast, listing sadly to one side, and Jack ran his hand through his hair, dismayed, avoiding Ianto's eyes. This wasn't the way Captain Jack Harkness - con man and sex-toy extraordinaire - left his lovers. "I'm not at my best." He admitted ruefully. "I should -" he made some sort of vague gesture and trailed off, not actually sure what he should do. Something clearly, and perhaps a blow-job would work. Gripping the thought like a life-line, as something familiar, he reached out but Ianto stepped back, lacing his fingers through Jack's instead of letting him reach his original target.

"Jack," Ianto said, rather carefully. "You don't actually have to be at your best."

Jack jerked his face aside, stiffening. Not being at his best got people killed. Not being his best let Hart pull a con on him - it was humiliating how long he'd believed him. Not being at his best left him in situations like _this_. But Ianto went stubbornly on, holding onto Jack's hand so he couldn't pull away.

"You don't have to be ready every single minute. You don't have to do this - and by this I mean _everything_ \- all alone." Ianto sidestepped to stay in Jack's line of sight, his mouth was set, and he looked a bit ... exasperated. "We managed without you for three months."

"You -" _didn't._ Jack cut himself off, clenching his jaw but Ianto's eyes narrowed and Jack could practically see the understanding bloom in his face. They were standing in a paradox right now, it clearly wasn't that hard to imagine another one.

"Yes, we might fail. So might you. So might anyone. But you chose us because we are the best at what we do. Let us _do_." Ianto's brow quirked and he went on, a certain note of ... warning in his voice. "In fact, I imagine it will be rather difficult to prevent us from doing, now. We've had our taste of adulthood, Jack. We won't go back."

Jack hung his head and glanced sidelong at Ianto, smiling faintly. "Time for unruly adolescence?"

Ianto's smile was smug. "Oh, yes. Breaking curfew, driving too fast, excessive risk-taking behavior. We even moved the boardroom. It's quite outrageous, really."

"I'm a terrible role model." Jack said, and sobered instantly, hit hard by the painful truth of those words.

Ianto's answer was sad and ironic both. "You're not a role model. You're a learning experience."

Jack's mouth twisted and he tugged Ianto close, kissing his temple then rubbing his nose in his hair. "_Ahhh_," He mumbled. "You smell good."

"I smell like I was nearly killed tonight," Ianto said wryly. "Along with everyone else."

"You smell alive," Jack breathed, shaken by how close he'd come to recreating the year that never was on a more personal level. He could have lost the whole team, his own little world, because Hart was feeling jealous. He shuddered up against Ianto, clutching his waist and snuffling panicked breaths into his neck.

Ianto let out a slow breath, cupping a hand around the nape of Jack's neck in a gesture Jack recognized - after a few moments - as protective. "Tell me one thing and I'll ask no others."

"Mmm?"

"How long were _you_ gone?"

Jack stiffened against the warm length of Ianto's body but he simply held on in silence, waiting for Jack. Still pressed into the darkness of Ianto's neck, Jack rubbed his thumb over Ianto's knuckles, tracing the line of competent fingers, feeling the sweat damp palm clasped to his, grateful for the unbroken miracle of skin and tendon and bone. Hands were such fragile things, so easy to reduce to unrecognizable meat. Jack shuddered again and Ianto's grip tightened, strong and whole and skilled. Strong. Even in the year that never was, Ianto had been strong, until nearly the end.

"A y-year," Jack breathed, unable to stop his fine trembling. "It wasn't – wasn't a good year."

"I gather that," Ianto murmured. He turned his head slightly, pressing his cheek to Jack's, breathing thoughtfully as Jack shook against him. "Let me - let me do _something_ for you, Jack. Let me help, tonight."

Jack hunched his shoulders, aching to accept the promise of comfort. But he'd forgotten how to let someone - anyone - in, his entire body was locked up, locked down, rigid and unyielding as a suit of empty armor.

"Go lie down," Ianto said quietly and whatever Jack couldn't bear to look at in Ianto's eyes was in his voice too, something profoundly intimate. "I'll be there in a moment."

Jack scooted onto Ianto's bed, winding his fingers in the sheets, attention flicking from Ianto - digging into his closet - to the band of yellow light from the living room. Light spilled past the half-open door, leaving Ianto's tiny little bedroom in shadows and helping to dull the un-lived in feel of it. A faint draft from main room, carrying the scent of the rain, made Jack twitch nervously. He'd never felt … vulnerable … naked before but now, he felt exposed no matter what he was wearing. There'd been no hiding from the Master, not his hopes, not his fears, not his pain, not his despair. Jack had hung there in chains and learned all the many ways to be helpless.

The sight of Ianto, crouched naked and rustling through boxes on the floor of his closet, stopped being sexy and reminded him, again, of how easy it was to be hurt, how vicious the world was beyond the darkness and the walls of Ianto's flat. Jack couldn't protect anyone, couldn't save anyone, couldn't even save himself. When Ianto turned around, small bottle in his hand, Jack was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed gripping the side of the mattress in white-knuckled hands and staring at his own bare knees.

"Need to pull myself together, don't I?" Jack muttered, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his face with a sigh. "Should have hit the clubs." He essayed a smile. "Loud music, lots of pheromones - what could be better?"

"Too much risk of being seen. Jack -" Ianto said. He'd put on muscle, in the time Jack had been gone - three months or one year - and Jack could feel gun calluses on his fingers. Somebody had been promoted in his absence. "This night doesn't exist, does it?" He said softly, settling next to Jack, bed rocking under his weight. "We're out there chasing after your ... old friend. Whatever happens here doesn't really _happen_. You don't have to be the hero tonight, I'm not the teaboy with delusions of hope. This isn't going down in some history book."

"Ianto -"

"It's just two people, Jack. Two people here, now, in a ... a night that never was." Ianto leaned his forehead against Jack's temple. "Just - just let it_ be_, Jack. For once. Tonight."

"I can't remember what I feel like. What I should - " Jack blurted nonsensically before he cut himself off. He shrugged jerkily and pulled back, waving aside the words but Ianto only studied him for a moment until Jack had to turn aside, too rawly naked to meet Ianto's eyes.

Ianto just nodded, sharp shadows slipping across his high cheekbones, and popped the cap on his little bottle. The sweet, dense scent of almonds filled the air. He poured a pool of oil into his palm and reached for Jack's hand.

Slippery and strong, Ianto's fingers dug into the pad of muscle at the base of Jack's thumb. Jack groaned loudly, swept with the sudden awareness of how much he _ached_ to be touched. It was nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the way Ianto's oily fingers slid over the muscles of his palm, easing away tension so tightly held Jack no longer felt it. Until now.

He felt it now, as Ianto rubbed along the small bones of Jack's hands then moved steadily up his wrists to the tight tendons there. Jack felt it now, melting away under Ianto's steady touch. He groaned again, throatily, head settling against Ianto's warm shoulder as he watched the progress of those fingers along his forearm. His oiled fingers were draped limply across his own thigh, palm up, passive, tingling with the memory of Ianto's touch.

"Lie down," Ianto said softly, again, shrugging his shoulder gently to dislodge Jack's lean against him. Jack slid down to the bed, curling around Ianto, pressing his face to his hip and thigh. Ianto's massaging hands moved to his biceps, rolling the muscles in his fingers, drawing his hands down Jack's arms in long, caressing strokes. Jack hadn't been touched like this in a year, he realized. For a year, the only time he was touched was when someone - the Master - wanted to hurt him. He shuddered, aware of himself enough now to feel the way his body knotted up at the memory. Ianto hummed under his breath, rubbing his palms along Jack's arm.

"Is it too much?" He asked softly.

"_No_ \- no -" Jack slung his arm across Ianto's crooked thigh, hugging him without lifting his face from where was tucked against his hip. "Don't stop - I was just thinking."

"Evidently, thinking isn't good for you."

"I guess not."

Ianto poured more oil onto his hands and started patiently again. When his probing fingers reached Jack's shoulder he choked back a cry. Ianto's hands stilled. "Jack?"

A year shackled to a wall, unable to move, arms stretched to the breaking point - _the grind and pop of his own body as the Master amused himself by dismembering him, the agony of hanging with both shoulders dislocated_ \- , unable to ease the cramping ache that lasted and lasted and lasted .... But he always healed. He didn't carry scars, like Martha or Tish, or their parents. He wouldn't bear the crippling injuries so many other prisoners on the Valiant had suffered. He'd always be perfect. Scarless, without as much as a bruise.

"It hurt," He whispered, tears welling through his tightly closed eyes as words he'd never spoken fought past the knot in his throat. "It hurt so _much_."

Ianto's hands spread over his back, as if he could somehow protect Jack with them, they were trembling slightly. "Should I stop?"

"No."

Still, Ianto gentled his touch until his massage was more a soft, circular rubbing, tracing the lines of muscle and bone without applying more than the gentlest of pressure. Even so, it took long moments before Jack could begin to relax again, letting the hypnotic slide of Ianto's warm hands lull him into drowsy acceptance.

"How did you learn this?" He asked, with Ianto's hand kneading the nape of his neck.

There was a long pause. "Lisa." Ianto finally said softly. "The immobility and the - the pain. I was trying to maintain range of motion. It seemed to help."

Jack blinked in the darkness, thinking of Ianto all those months ago, with his lover's mutilated body hidden away and Ianto offering comfort this way, with his hands, touching a body Jack resolutely refused to think of as human. But, Ianto's touch was such a _human_ thing, a human intimacy, and it made Jack wonder if Lisa had been able to hold on for so long because of it. Under Ianto's hands Jack didn't feel like a monster, or a prisoner, or a freak. He felt - human. How long, he wondered, did Lisa feel human? How long before even Ianto wasn't able to bring her back?

"It did," Jack murmured, shifting his hand so he could run his thumb over the curve of Ianto's thigh. "I'm sure it did."

Ianto sighed shakily. "Lie on your stomach."

Jack rolled over, wondering if Ianto was going to fuck him, lifting his head curiously – Ianto was half-hard but when he moved, it wasn't to spread Jack's legs. He dribbled a line of oil down Jack's back and spread his hands over his skin. Jack buried his face in the sheets, groaning softly. Ianto's hands were solid, assured and the warmth of them as he moved in long strokes over Jack's back, thumbs sliding on either side of his spine, soaked into Jack's skin. He used the heels of his hand to work the muscles of Jack's arse, running his thumbs firmly along the curve joining thigh to butt. When his hand moved between Jack's cheeks, it was sensual, shiveringly intimate as he rubbed his hole, but it wasn't sex. Jack made a soft sound and spread his legs, arching his hips back. Ianto chuckled and ran the oily pads of his fingers down over the backs of Jack's balls then moved to his thighs.

Ianto moved down his legs, the backs of his knees, his calves – even Jack's feet got the same level of attention. Where Jack remembered mutilation, where his muscles and tendons tightened in anticipation of pain, Ianto's fingers chased away the memories. Cringing muscles and battered nerves remembered health, wholeness, again. Jack began to shiver violently, long, gasping shudders as tightly wound flesh relaxed in spasms and jerks. He seemed, awkwardly, to be crying too though Jack didn't really know why. Thankfully, Ianto seemed untroubled by it.

"Turn over." Was all he said and Jack did so, flinging an arm over his eyes. Ianto's hands made their gentle way up his legs again, he felt achingly exposed, and Jack didn't think he could stand it.

"Ianto, Ianto," Jack reached for him, pulling Ianto down on top of himself as Ianto struggled to brace himself with slippery fingers. Jack kept him close, breathing hard, reveling in the weight of Ianto, the beat of his heart against Jack's chest (his own heart, beating), his breath warm on Jack's face. "Stay – " he asked. "Just stay, for a moment, for a little while – stay."

"Jack," Ianto breath hitched, his grip tight on Jack's arms and he buried his face against Jack's neck. "Jack –"

_"Stay."_

Ianto laughed, softly, painfully. "Yes. Yes."

Jack relaxed, running his hands up and down Ianto's back. He felt different, there was a knotted scar along his shoulder blade and muscles where there'd once been a certain amount of youthful softness. Nothing was the same, Jack realized, throat closing. Nothing could be the same. The Year had never happened but nothing was the same.

**END (07/17/08)**


End file.
